


Ensemble Piece

by bluflamingo



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Early Days, F/M, Gen, SHIELD, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-12 12:53:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11737461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluflamingo/pseuds/bluflamingo
Summary: Early in her time with SHIELD, Natasha gets tonsillitis, and starts figuring out her place in SHIELD.





	Ensemble Piece

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flipflop_diva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flipflop_diva/gifts).



"It's just tonsillitis," Natasha argued, to Dr Singh, and then to Dr Matthews, in charge of mission approvals, and finally to Director Fury.

"And a broken leg and a concussion."

"A mild concussion. And it's more like a broken ankle." Natasha tried to swing her legs to prove the point, and mostly proved that it was more of a broken leg than a broken ankle, stars sparking on the edge of her vision.

Fury kept looking down at her where she was sitting on the edge of a medical gurney. Barton had told her that Fury only took over as director of SHIELD six months before she came in with him, but as far as she could tell, Fury _was_ SHIELD, fitting into the place like it'd been built around him.

Somehow, it just made him stand out in Medical even more, pure black amongst the hyper-clean lines of the place.

"A mild concussion is why you're being allowed back to your quarters here, instead of being kept overnight in Medical."

Fury's expression didn't change at all as he said it, but Natasha could read even him, saw the flicker of acknowledgement that she couldn't be kept in Medical if she didn't want to stay, and had proved that more than once.

Even with a mild concussion, a broken leg, and tonsillitis.

Tonsillitis, for fuck's sake. She was honestly a little ashamed of her body for that.

"Do you need an escort to your quarters, Agent Romanoff?"

"No," she said. Even if she did bump into three walls and a door trying to make it there on crutches.

Natasha didn't dislike her quarters at SHIELD – they were entirely inoffensive, cream all over, a bed and a closet, a tiny desk and an even smaller bathroom. She had safe houses in most of the major cities of the world, New York being no exception, everything from doss-houses without running water to penthouses with gold-plated fittings, but there was something about her tiny quarters in SHIELD that wasn't like any of them. 

There was something comforting, in a way that Natasha couldn't ever have predicted, about knowing that every other room on the corridor was exactly the same. Or maybe it was just that she was surrounded by people she was supposed to be like, people she could blend in with.

Whatever it was, it was enough for her to feel safe as she curled under the comforter and closed her eyes. Even with the meds, her throat burned when she swallowed, and her leg pulsed pain in time with her breathing. She knew her own body well enough to know that she could, if needed, go out on a mission like nothing was wrong at all – that it would, in fact, be much easier to deal with the pain if she did have to fake like nothing was wrong.

Sometimes, having a whole agency as backup was a real pain in the neck.

Or the throat, in Natasha's case.

She was on her way to dozing, comforter pulled over her head, when the door buzzer sounded. It was only once, and it wouldn't be an emergency, not without the base-wide alarm sounding. Unless it was the kind of emergency that just required her.

The buzzer went again. "What?" she called, even knowing the door was soundproof. When she pulled the comforter away, her hair stuck to her face, and she could feel sweat gathering at the base of her neck. Her throat didn't hurt as much when she swallowed though, so there was that.

The silence went on for just long enough that she was about to curl back down into her nest when the buzzer sounded again. Three times meant she really had to answer.

Her quarters were small enough that she didn't need the crutches, just hopped over to the door, shoving her hair out of her face with one hand as she opened it with the other. 

If she'd thought about it, she might have expected Clint Barton to be on the other side.

In her wildest imaginings, she wouldn't have expected Clint Barton to be on the other side with a bright blue rabbit tucked under one arm and a tub of what looked like ice cream in the other hand.

"You're persistent," she told him.

He grinned in response, and she felt her mouth curl up slightly. He was a nice boy, and there hadn't been many of them in her life so far. "Gonna let me in?"

"Yes," Natasha said, taking a hop-step back, "But only because it's really bright out here."

"And because Medical will know if you spend more than five minutes on a broken leg without crutches," Clint agreed, closing the door gently behind himself. 

Natasha shuffled herself back into the nest of comforter to lean against the wall beside her bed. The pain meds were definitely kicking in, but so was the concussion, everything spinning slightly if she moved too fast. "You want to sit down?"

Clint spun the wooden chair tucked under her desk and straddled it backwards, close enough to the bed for him to reach out and touch her. He didn't, just sat there, obviously off duty in worn jeans and a soft-looking purple T-shirt, watching her.

"Okay," Natasha said when it became clear that he hadn't come carrying a message from Fury, or some pretense of a required check-up from Medical, and wasn't even going to do that annoying thing Hill did where she put the back of her hand against Natasha's forehead and declared that she was, "Burning up, Romanoff, why are you polluting my briefing room instead of in Medical?"

"Okay, what?" Clint was still smiling, soft, like he was laughing at her a bit.

"Okay," Natasha repeated, dragging her thoughts back on track. "I'll bite: why are you here, and why have you brought a toy rabbit and ice cream with you?"

Clint waggled the rabbit a little, making one of its ears fall over its eye. It was kind of cute; she just didn't get why it was being cute in her quarters. "This is what you do when someone's got tonsillitis. Bring ice cream and movies, and something soft."

"That what someone did last time you had tonsillitis?" Natasha asked, instead of asking about the movie. Clint had a weird fixation on Disney movies, and Natasha could feel her Soviet spirit getting corrupted, a little bit at a time, with every one she watched.

Clint looked down, the smile slipping, and when he met her eyes again, she recognized that look. It was the one that said he didn't quite trust her, not yet, with the story of how he'd grown up in a circus, didn't have any better idea than her of what it meant to be taken care of when you were sick, but that he would, one day soon.

Natasha wasn't exactly waiting for that moment. Knowing it was coming, though – knowing that one day she'd trust him too, enough to tell him that she already knew that story, not to let the lie of it being new to her spoil the trust of him telling it… It made something inside of her feel warm and safe, like Fury fussing in Medical, and Hill sending her there in the first place, and the rows of identical rooms that meant Natasha was one of many, not on her own, not any more. 

Even if it did come with Disney movies, she kind of liked it.

"Give me the rabbit," she said. It was as soft as it looked, kind of lanky, with limbs that flopped all over and a pale blue tuft of tail. "Did you give him a name?"

Clint went red, like she'd known he would, but also said, "Buddy," because he was a huge softy. A huge softy who'd brought vanilla ice cream and a soft toy rabbit and Lilo and Stitch on DVD, and who didn't object to going all the way to the mess for two spoons so they could sit and watch the movie together on Natasha's bed and get ice cream on their pants when it started to melt and…

And it was nice, was all. Having a friend. Belonging somewhere.


End file.
